


There Is No Accounting For Taste

by justsammich



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Gen, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), because being home is unbearable even if he won't actively admit it, blink and you'll miss my love for jackie kashian's stand up, eddie uses overtime as an excuse to not go home, self-indulgent trash tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsammich/pseuds/justsammich
Summary: “Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie mutters under his breath before his head jerks up, hands stilling over the keys. Where the fuck did that come from?Or: Eddie overhears some stand-up comedy and has an immediate crisis.





	There Is No Accounting For Taste

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent nonsense after literal YEARS of not writing fic, and it's probably been done before and better, so! 
> 
> There probably won't be any follow-up but who knows! I could have another thought that won't leave me until it's out. I figure it's better not to get any hopes up if this is well-received.
> 
> Un-beta'd and rated for language.

The office is quiet except for the tap-tap-tapping of keyboard keys of the only other person to stay late and the custodial staff moving from desk to desk on as if on autopilot, emptying trash cans and giving desks a half-assed wipe down with Clorox wipes. Eddie nudges his own trash can out from under his desk as he works, gaze not leaving his computer screen as the tinny sound of the janitor’s phone draws closer. Some comedy channel is playing; some jokes getting drowned out by laughter, others by groans. Eddie doesn’t recognize the comedian, doesn’t recognize most comedians if he’s being completely honest, and only catches snatches of the bit as the man pauses behind his computer chair. It’s offensive and awful and—

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie mutters under his breath before his head jerks up, hands stilling over the keys. Where the _ fuck _ did that come from? 

Turning his chair, he asks, “Hey, uh. Who. Who was that?” The track has changed, a woman with a Midwestern accent talking about her parents getting divorced. _ Yeah, hi. _ Divorced_, still living together. _ The man plucks his phone from the chest pocket of his shirt, name tag torn off and clearly borrowed, and thumbs back through the app he has open.

“Richie Tozier,” he tells Eddie, then frowns. “One of his old ones, looks like. His newer shit’s better.” When Eddie doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t carry on the conversation like a normal fucking person, the man moves on with his work; phone sliding back from whence it came, speaker muffled once more. If he’s offended, Eddie doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice because it’s a name he’s never heard before but the joke felt too far, too much, and someone had to shut him up before he stuck his foot even further in his mouth.

Eddie swallows and turns back to his computer. His hands don’t return to the keyboard and he realizes that his mouth is suddenly dry. _ Richie Tozier _. The syllables form soundlessly, but they aren’t familiar. At least, they aren’t in any significant way. He’s certain he’s never heard, or seen, his stand up, and he doesn’t remember anyone declaring themselves a comedian in high school or college actually following through.

But—

_ Beep beep, Richie _.

His hands are shaking where they rest on his thighs; his breathing picking up to the point of almost leaving him lightheaded; his right arm aching where he broke it when—

“_Jesus! _ ” Eddie jumps when his cell phone starts ringing. He blows out a shaky breath and wipes his palms on his pants before dragging it over and unplugging it from its charger. Myra’s face stares up at him from the screen. “Hey, honey.” He sags in his chair, anxiety ebbing away the further his mind gets from foul-mouthed comedians and childhood accidents. “No. It’s gonna be a late night; don’t wait up.” She won’t but he says it anyway, says it because it’s expected. She hangs up after they go through the over-rehearsed script — _ I know I work too many hours_, _ I will drive safe when I leave_, _ I love you, too, Myra _— and Eddie rests the top of his phone against his lips before he thinks better of it and lets it clatter to his desk as if it burned him.

The _ germs _ on there aren’t worth thinking about if he wants his inhaler to remain _ for emergencies only _ . The _ diseases _...

“Gazebos,” he murmurs and, like before, Eddie frowns and doesn’t know where that came from either. He drums his fingers on his desk, nervous energy seeping back in at the edges, before he pulls up an internet window and types _ Richie Tozier _ into the search bar. He doesn’t recognize the unruly hair or square-framed glasses or the five o’clock shadow or the arrogant smile full of white teeth that looks more like a grimace than anything, but something inside him _ aches _ with familiarity. 

What the _ fuck _?

Eddie leans forward and clicks on his speakers, listens to the static hiss as he adjusts them to keep the volume low enough to not disturb his coworker, and presses play on one of the oldest YouTube videos Google offers. He minimizes the screen and tries to focus on the work he’d been doing before, doesn’t let himself actually _ see _ the middle-aged man spewing trash in a way that makes Eddie snort and roll his eyes and make faces in equal measure. The nervous energy settles, makes a home for itself somewhere beneath his ribcage.

A joke doesn’t land, the audience groans and laughs nervously like they know they shouldn’t. “Beep beep, Richie.” 

The video ends and a new one starts, sounding more like a professional recording and less like a comedy club cam job. Hovering over the icon in his task bar, the preview window tells Eddie it’s from a newer special than the first video. Every joke lands but they leave him feeling annoyed, like he knows, somehow, that they aren’t authentic. The audience laughs and laughs and laughs, and Eddie can’t help himself when he pulls the window up properly. The man on the screen looks nervous as he pushes his glasses up, uncomfortable even though he’s smiling right along with them. It looks wrong and it scares Eddie that he knows that.

Another video starts, another comedy club with shit lighting and dated almost a decade ago. Eddie groans at the punchline of the first joke and hangs his head as he minimizes the screen once again. The janitor who’s name he doesn’t know is wrong.

His old shit is way better.


End file.
